


lately i've been fine, floating away

by Kt_fairy



Series: let the river rush in [8]
Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: (and so is george barrow), (show!crozier's dad is a dick), Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Body Dysphoria, Bottom!Crozier, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, Self Confidence Issues, do not copy to another site
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:41:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22419436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kt_fairy/pseuds/Kt_fairy
Summary: "You have done that before, then?" Francis said, and wanted to roll his eyes at himself for that indelicate, indirect phrasing."What?""Buggery.""Francis…" James said indulgently, a slow smile on his face as he perched an elbow on his knee and leant forward. "What do you think we have been doing?""No - yes I know. I mean doing the buggering?"
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames
Series: let the river rush in [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1458220
Comments: 16
Kudos: 114





	lately i've been fine, floating away

**Author's Note:**

> Please see notes at the end for warnings.
> 
> As I wrote this I thought of it happening after right [all thoughts, all passions, all delights](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21605782), it doesn't Need to be read beforehand, but I won't stop you.
> 
> Thanks to MsKingBean89 for getting this in good order. MWAH

The fire popped and cracked as a piece of coal sipped in the grate with a clatter that barely drew a glance from Francis. The flames shimmered and leapt in agitation, sending warm light flickering over James who was sprawled on the sofa in his shirtsleeves, one foot thrown over the opposite armrest while the other rested on the floor, a saucer of tea perched precariously on his chest.

James was as inebriated as any moderate drinker became having dined at Sir George Back's (the air had had become so thick with the smell of rich red wines that Francis had begun to feel sympathetic effects), a flush of port wine stretching almost all the way from James’ open collar to his hairline, eyes hazy as they gazed at the mantelpiece.

Their other dinner companions had gone out to catch a "late show" - which meant finding an actress to entertain them until the early hours - including _George Barrow_. His behaviour at dinner had been so forward that Francis had almost cast the ugly porcelain soup tureen onto his lap and then boxed him on the nose, but good old Leo M’Clintock, sharp and sensible as ever, had swapped seats with James so the evening did not descend into even more of a scene than it already had.

"George Barrow is a saucy fellow when the claret flows is he not?" Francis broke the comfortable silence, the topic remaining unbroached until now, and was relieved when James snorted loudly enough that he had to save his tea from being dashed all over his waistcoat.

"It is behaviour like that which caused _me_ to have to get him out of very hot water in Singapore, _don’t-ye-know_ ,” James said, a dark look passing over what parts of his shadowed face Francis could see. “I'd have left him in it, the vagrant, if not for my friendship with the youngest of his clan.”

“It was a commendable thing to do for your friend, James.”

“Thank you,” James said under his breath, going silent a moment before he tried to push himself more upright, his foot slipping on the rug. “I say, his sense of subtlety only decreases with the increasing flow of alcohol. I felt like _he thought_ I was on offer in a brothel or something of the like. Cad. Bunch of them are, letting him carry on like that."

"They were yes,” Francis muttered, adjusting his dressing gown as he stretched his feet towards the fire. No one was going to say anything to the senior clerk of the Colonial Office, which the odious man knew quite well. “I would have offered him a thrashing if Leo had not stepped in.”

“I should have very much liked to see you in a jealous rage, my dear,” James drawled, dropping his chin onto his shoulder so Francis could see his smile. 

Francis thought that in reality James would very much _not_ have liked him like that, and Francis certainly would not feel very proud of himself if he had lashed out, no matter how satisfying breaking Barrow's nose would have been. “I should not think me putting out his ardour with a glass of wine tipped over his head would be the most scandalous thing that has happened in Back’s dining room.”

“Nor the first time that has happened, I’d wager,” James said as he struggled again to sit upright, this time putting both feet on the floor. “It may have woken the fellow up some. I am a gold braid draped sir these days, I cannot - if you will excuse me - slip out to give anyone a quick buggering. Let alone _him_. It is not as if he does not know where to go about getting that sort of thing, yet he will not, and puts people in a position! For him to even attempt such a thing after Singapore is really just…”

James went on, jabs of his teacup emphasising points that Francis did not hear, too busy wondering if he should be surprised by that revelation (no, that admission?) that James was not only in the business of buggering, but Barrow had been looking for _that_ rather then having a go on James himself.

Francis had come to this, to James, with no expectations of how things were between men, and tried to neither make nor keep any assumptions. He had never thought that things could or should be one way, as it were, but he had never really given it much thought. James was his point of reference, and who he wished to please and make happy above all, and never once in all of the times James had instigated or lead the way, had he ever made such a preference or a desire known. Had never once raised the option of doing _that_ to Francis.

James had stopped talking to gulp down his tea, which Francis was very glad of, as he had been told more things about George Barrow and half the diplomatic corps than he ever wished to know. He was not carrying the stiffness across his shoulders that Francis recognised meant he was waiting for a reaction. This was not as weighty an admission for James as the knowledge was to Francis; it was a thing said off the cuff, as if Francis should know already that the dynamic war hero was not always the one spreading his legs.

Decades of pushing aside this one curiosity, and a youth spent ignoring all sorts of desires, almost had Francis remaining silent. But James would remember his silence before long, and Francis did not want him to think it a judgement; leaving him with that guilt alongside his rapidly forming regrets at not being as attentive a lover as he should be.

All this being committed in love to another person could be a bloody complicated business at times.

"You have done that before, then?" Francis said, and wanted to roll his eyes at himself for that indelicate, indirect phrasing.

"What?" 

"Buggery."

"Francis…" James said indulgently, a slow smile on his face as he perched an elbow on his knee and leant forward. "What do you think we have been doing?"

"No - yes I _know_. I mean doing the buggering?"

"Me? Oh no," James waved the very idea away with one elegant pass of his hand. "One does not go about things in that way with the son of the Permanent Secretary of the Admiralty. Not if one wishes to make a go of a career, eh?"

That was an answer to a question that Francis had not asked, but he nodded anyway, wishing he had drunk his tea more slowly so he could have something to fiddle with to hide his pensiveness. He should have asked what James liked from the start, instead of taking things as they came, but things had been so difficult back then of course; so much had been demanded of them when there had not been a great deal to give, and wanting one another had been so easy.

James was watching him, gaze so insistent that it made Francis flush. He glanced up at James from where he had been staring blankly at the rug between them, tugging absentminded at his dressing gown to pull it closed tighter about him in some attempt to shield himself from the directness of the attention being levelled at him.

“Will you ask me what you want to," James said gently, all trace of drunkenness gone from his voice as he set his tea cup down on the floor carefully. "Or should I let you think on it a while first?”

“I have no idea.”

James nodded, tossing his hair off of his face as he sat back, eyes still set intently on Francis in a way that would usually cause stirrings in his groin. James often joked about how Francis could know him with a look, see right down into the depths of what worried, upset, or pleased him; but James was just as capable of scorching the truth out of Francis with his eyes, that were as dark and as deep as any ocean.

Francis could see when James caught hold of the obvious thread of his thoughts, the firelight showing the minute quirk of his eyebrow and the way his hand paused its fidgeting againsthis thigh.

“I -” James began, then cleared his throat. “You know that I have not stuck to one _habit_ all my life, Francis. And neither have I with men, both through inclination and- that is… well,” he scratched at the stubble on his jaw. “I shan’t go into the way such casual things between men tended to work, but I have not always trusted the other party enough to be passive with them.”

“ _Passive_?” Francis scoffed, raising his eyebrows when James nodded as if he did not understand Francis’ incredulity. “You are hardly that.”

“No…”

“You let your likes and wants be known, and you drop me on my back…”

“That’s not how I mean it.”

“...and take your pleasure as you see - _Oh_.”

“And I do not think that sounded how you meant it to.” James said, his shadowed smile obviously fond. “Although I hear your meaning, that I am neither compliant nor meek. Indeed, I do not let you have your way with me.”

Francis hummed in agreement, wishing for the first time in a good while for a good stiff drink to help carry him forward. “Is it something that you miss doing?”

“That I miss?”

“For God’s sake, James, do not make me go into it. I am struggling as it is!”

James blinked at him slowly, then gave a smart nod as he straightened once more. 

“I would not say that I feel an absence. My life has been such that the most rolling about I have ever done, has been during my time with you,” James admitted as if he was not sure whether to be proud or self-conscious of the lack of notches on his proverbial bedpost, caught between devoted lover and the handsome, popular young officer that he still was. (Francis would bet the tally of notches still amounted to more than his, even with those long, sticky Hobart summers that were not appropriate to think of now). “So I am more than happy, Francis. Fear not! May I embarrass myself by declaring my fulfilment?” He smiled brightly despite the shifting of his hands in his lap. “Why are you asking?” 

Why indeed? How many other men would, he wondered, when all was working so well for them. He should brush it off and stop poking at their settled happiness as if expecting to find a crack in it. Why was he asking things that might cause him to have to lay himself bare to the uncommon parts of himself and his desires that James had already made his peace with. Why? Because he loved and trusted James more than anyone else, and because having his life and happiness handed back to him from the jaws of oblivion meant he wanted _to_ live, not become one of those staid old men Francis so disliked. 

His business was discovery and curiosity, was it not, so why not expand upon this horizon. Or some such poetic nonsense. 

“I can wonder about it, can I not?”

“Of course,” James answered slowly, eyes narrowing. “Good wondering, or brooding?”

“It is not bad wondering,” Francis countered, which made James chuckle.

“That is hardly an answer and you know it!” James wagged his finger jokingly at Francis, and heaved himself to his feet, taking a moment to ensure his balance before crossing the small space between them. He stood looking down at Francis as Francis looked up at him, the dying fire turning the edges of his shadowed silhouette burnished gold as he pushed his hair from his face. James smiled, crouching to look Francis in the eye, one bent leg slotting between Francis’ knees as he braced his hands on the armrests. “Do not ponder over this for the sake of it, Francis,” he murmured, leaning forward just enough to give him a peck on the lips. “And for Christ's sake do not let sodding George bloody Barrow influence you, or take up any more room in your thoughts than this. That man has never been anywhere near me.”

“I know,” Francis ran his hand up and down James’ forearm, feeling the strength of him through his shirt, and all those thoughts left his mind as sharply as if they had heard the order. 

“Good,” James kissed him once more, firmly enough that Francis could taste the wine on his tongue, then straightened. “I was going to entice you to bed, but I think all I shall do is fall asleep and snore boorishly, so the enticing might have to wait until tomorrow.”

“I shall mark your intended allurement in my diary,” Francis said as he stood to bank the fire, making no attempt to get away when James reeled him in by the belt of his dressing gown for a very thorough goodnight kiss. 

  
  


* ***** *

  
  


Today was not one of the bad days. Francis could meet his eyes in the mirror without seeing only age and uneven skin. Could dress properly instead of forcing himself to focus on this button, or that neat crease, or the fall of a cuff instead of his reflection. 

Today he could stand to look at himself as a whole instead of just the relevant parts, so had turned to those new clothes he had ordered when in a similarly buoyant mood while waiting for James to be fitted for yet another pair of trousers. He had not touched them since they arrived, nervous of the very modern fashion that, at the time, had seemed not so different from what he preferred. Looking at himself now he did not mind the cut of the waistcoat against the dropped shoulders of the old style shirts he would not give up, and how it smoothed over his middle that had not yet become as thick as it had been, nor was ever likely to be as athletic as it once was.

He would do, he thought with a shrug to himself, and set about looking for a cravat.

Part of his good mood came from his good night’s sleep. He did often sleep better alone - a sailors habit - and the long, _active_ day before the usual spirited dinner at Sir George’s had been enough to put him to sleep with the taste of the claret from James’ mouth on his lips and barely a thought in his head. 

Those had come on with the morning, the blank minutes of slow wakefulness being rudely interrupted by memories of the night before. Or rather, the subject of their late night conversation.

It was something that he had thought about in idle and not so idle ways; first in boyish confusion as had tried to work out what the officers on the _Briton_ were so thunderously warning the boys to guard themselves from, and then curiosity of what it might be like to be had and wanted as women were. 

Francis had always done his best to obey what the Articles of War demanded of him as an officer, and to enact its demands on the men; but, personally, he had never put much stock in what was said of men who submitted to being sodomised; and, out of spiteful self preservation more than anything, had done his damnedest to ignore his father's furious proclamations that being shy or afraid or quiet made him a filthy mollyanne. James was none of those things, yet was far more of a man that either of their father's had been. He had not set his wants aside in order to be bright and daring and bold, and he did not accept Francis' desires meekly, rather took them and moulded them with his own so they might both please the other

Francis stumbled over tying his cravat at the thought of that, fumbling with the silk (dark blue and as smooth as water, a gift from James) before pulling it off and starting to tie it again from scratch, ignoring the unattractive blush on his cheeks.

He had never put his mouth on anyone before James, and even though he was not as keen on it as James seemed to be, it did not repel him. How could it when James fell to pieces every time he engaged in the act, his reaction far louder than any of the vile things Francis had heard said about men who let others use their mouths. 

He would not let his tastes be ruled by such things. These acts between men were not abhorrent or terrifying, not now he knew how much delight it could bring, but as he looked over himself in the mirror now, stocky and careworn and woefully Irish, he thought the most difficult hurdle to clear might be the unease in himself. 

This body of his had never been his own. As child it had been covered in bruises and scrapes from when he had not escaped his father’s right to discipline as he saw fit; Francis’ earliest memories of himself were of looking down through teary eyes at the criss-crossing welts from his father’s belt on his skin and being so sick with shame at how _bad_ he must have been. How hard that made him to love and cherish as other children where.

Francis became used to ignoring his body, made easy when as a boy it was given up to be used by the Navy for the safety and good of England. With bathing aboard ship often conducted with a wet cloth passed under a shirt (especially in the arctic) and being buttoned up in uniforms it was easy to cut himself off from the strain and discomfort and those needs that he would have to do without - even visits to doxies needed little more than opening trousers. As a youth sailing through more tropical climes he had been too fair and liable to burn to splash about naked in the warm waters, and then laze about on untouched beaches like his friends had. The distance from himself and the easy company of others in the times when wandering hands and wants were more permissible, made it easier to ignore many aspects of himself, and the most dangerous of his curiosities. If it was only for the pleasure of it, then it was not for this body that was made for hard work; the simple needs he allowed it satisfied in the simplest, most hardy of ways.

He had always been workmanlike and blunt, not built for gentleness or to receive any tenderness or care, a thing he had realised fully when he met Sophia’s passionate nature and all that entailed. Not like James, who was so perfectly formed for adoration that Francis had hated him once; who was managing to age into his late thirties in a rather distinguished fashion, with that hint of grey at his hairline, and those poised lines of wisdom and thought on his face. That he desired Francis was still a surprise, what with how he was sagging and softening in places that had never been graceful to begin with; James’ wandering hands and gentle devotion, was not something he dare examine closely lest it fade away before his eyes, but enough for him to almost believe James truly did find him desirable.

Yet even so, Francis doubted he would be an appealing a sight with his legs spread, or, God forbid, with his backside in the air. 

He pulled on his coat, averting his eyes as he buttoned it up and turned fully away from the mirror. He was far too old to have his arse fiddled with, and thinking so much on himself made him want to crawl into bed and refuse to acknowledge the day. But he was also too old for that, so went to down to breakfast as if he had not just thoroughly dismantled his own good mood.

James, surprisingly, was already down, flicking through a letter while he ate his kedgeree. It went without saying that he looked effortlessly handsome, his grey frock coat sweeping over his broad shoulders and left casually open over a deep purple waistcoat that brought out the warmth of his complexion, and the darkness of his eyes that turned to Francis when he came into the room, lingering on him as he walked to the table. 

“Good morning, James."

“Good morning to you and that very fine coat. Is that the new one?”

“Yes.”

“Makes me pine for a forest green one myself,” James grinned proudly at his pun, setting down his cutlery to reach out and brush his hand over Francis’ waist when he moved around him to sit. “You look very well in it.”

“Thank you,” Francis nodded, pulling the toast closer as James poured him a cup of Daisy’s thick, rich coffee. “Or rather, thank you to your tailor.”

“He is not the one wearing it so well,” James said as he traced the shoulder seam, still looking over Francis with such open appreciation that he had to reach for The Times to give him something to do.

Francis did not hide behind the newspaper, but he was not above turning his attention to it rather than reveal to James anything of his low state and earlier turmoils. He had barely scanned the headlines before a hand found its way onto his thigh, fingertips pressing against the inseam of his trousers. “It shows you off wonderfully.”

“I thought were talking about my coat, not my trousers.”

James tilted his head coyly, expertly dodging away when Francis batted at him with the newspaper. He laughed with the restraint of a man only just holding off the effects of the night before, foot pressing to Francis’ under the table, and he felt his worries recede a little as affection coursed through him. 

He felt a great deal for James, and in return was always shown the depth of the soft emotion James held for him. If James could look at him gently and love him after seeing the drunk, maudlin, violent, very worst of all Francis was - could be so bold in his advances despite all the faults Francis so readily saw in himself - then surely it should be no thing for Francis to simply put all this to James? Surely he was making all this more than it was, if he truly did think that being buggered was no bad, emasculating thing. Yet acting on a belief was not always so easy - and to say “I’m considering trying out being buggered, what do you think?” over breakfast might be a little beyond even James’ forwardness.

“What secret thought are you smiling over?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing, eh? Well…” He gave Francis a _faux_ suspicious look as he picked up his knife and fork once more, then tapped the front of the newspaper. “I doubt it is the headlines, have you seen what that ratbag Palmerston has done?”

“Please do not rant over breakfast, it ruins your digestion.”

“Very well,” James conceded, a forkful of food almost at his mouth. “He is still a toad and a warmonger. And blackguard!”

“I know.”

* ***** *

“You look like a cat, basking away like that.”

Francis had not been asleep, merely resting his eyes. The only reason he had startled was because the room had been so still, only the gentle _shhshhshh_ of pencils and pen on paper, and the sound of James gently humming to himself. 

He raised a hand to shield his eyes from the peaceful pool of warm sunlight he had been enjoying, blinking over at James who was sitting at an angle to his drawing desk. He had an arm leaning on the back of the chair, chin propped up on the palm of his hand while the other held a pencil to his sketchbokk, and Francis would not put it past the rascal to have been drawing him. 

“Then I have the right idea of a Sunday afternoon,” Francis grumbled as he crossed his legs, pleased to note the smile that brought. 

James had been out of sorts for the past couple of days. Goodsir and his brother Robert had come to London to see about his book, so they had all dined together, and the talk of the discoveries, and the plates that James was to lend to the edition, had created a horrible nightmare in him that night. James had been a sweating, shaking mess when Francis had managed to wake him, and refused to speak of it, spending the next day in a foul, tearful mood, hardly able to face eating meat let alone food of any substance.

The marks those dark times had left on body and soul did not show themselves with any great frequency, but were felt regularly enough that they were both sadly adept at finding leads through the distress. Lightness had returned to James yesterday evening, tucking himself up against Francis in his blue striped dress while reading the amusing entries from the _Naval Gazette_ aloud to him. He had actually come to bed last night instead of sitting up until sleep took him by force, waking Francis by curling up behind him and slipping his fingers between the buttons of his nightshirt. In fact he had been rather cheeky this morning, bullying Francis into letting him shave him and then - when finished of course - clambering onto his lap while tugging him off. 

Francis had almost asked him then, while James was murmuring filth into his ear, if he would have him. Yet things being what they were in that moment, he had not quite had the words for it, nor been prepared to have James stop his ministrations. 

Now - in this bright drawing room where they had shared a scandalous amount of one another, James contented in that way that usually meant he was either about to come to Francis or draw him over to him, and without the weight of overthinking pressing him down - Francis thought was as good a moment as he might get, to speak with ease and minimal embarrassment.

“I have a thing to ask you James, but I am not sure how to put it.”

James straightened, perking up like hare in a field. “I shall try and not be filled with trepidation while you find a way to.”

“I thought about it more than I should have as a younger man. I mean from when I first came to understand fully what was meant by the whispers and warning. There were too many notions of power for an unconnected Irishman to consider it, and then I thought at twenty-one I had aged out of it, as most attention was directed at - well, I do not need to say. But recent...knowledge, and from _knowing_ you, has shown me that is not so.”

“I…” James started, narrowing his eyes at him ever so slightly. “Francis what is this leading to?”

“I have not cared to know myself for most of my life, or…” Francis stopped himself before he veered into more personal territory than this demanded. “See here, James. You are a man who was mentioned in the _Gazette_ five times while in China and yet you enjoy an intimacy others would call the worst sin. And in so honest a way. You let me know you in this way, and I would have you know me…”

James had begun to make a series of stunned, blustering noises that the English were so good at, and Francis watched him until he managed to get out some actual words. “And you chastise me for being forward in the middle of the day!”

“It felt like the most comfortable and opportune moment.”

“Of course, of course,” James said as he set down his pencil carefully. “I do not speak to upbraid you Francis only…” he drummed his fingers on the desk quickly, made as if he were about to stand, then turned to face Francis properly. “You are only asking me this after my thoughtless indelicacy regarding George Barrow?”

“I admit to that yes. I had not realised it was a thing I might choose, let alone that you might welcome.”

"Is it something _you_ might choose, or is it simply because you know it is an act I have enjoyed in the past?"

"That is a part of it, yes. Why?"

"If _you_ yourself wish for… If you ask for my benefit, to submit yourself for my enjoyment, then I will not Francis. I simply will not. But if you do truly want me to have you, for yourself, then I will do it."

Francis had not been expecting this much resistance from James. On any of the few occasions that he had asked for something, or on the even rarer ones where he had declined, James was always interested and gentle, never negative, nor obstructive like he was being now. As Francis looked down as his blunt, pale hands set in his broad lap he could not help thinking that he had been right, that he was too old or unappealing for James to want him like that, and the thought of an impending rejection, after he had built himself up to the moment where he could speak, made Francis want to get up and leave the room. 

“Do you not want to do it?” Francis asked directly. “For if that is so, simply say it and we shall put his all behind us.”

“ _Francis_ ,” James breathed softly, Francis seeing him stand out of the corner of his eye. “Please do not think I only want one thing from you, or that I would dare not reciprocate in kind. I only... only if _you_ truly want to, and not out of anything to do with George _Barrow_.”

“You are dangerously close to being patronising.”

“I am _not_ ,” James snapped. “You treat all of this as if it means nothing, as if it carries no weight of disgrace. You are honoured and respected both as a man of science and a captain. There are land masses named for you! Men of your calibre do not do degrade themselves on a whim. They do not even consider it.”

James' words were full of shame, and they stung Francis as deeply as if he had outright chastised him for this inappropriate desire.

“Of my calibre?” Francis scoffed, glaring up at James. “Yet a man of yours would? I have never considered it lessened you in any way, or that anything lessens you.”

James winced. “I do not mean…”

“If you find it to be so, then I cannot say I wish to continue that intimacy. Not if you feel I _degrade_ you.”

“I do not think that,” James sighed, hands placed demonstratively on his hips even as he seemed to soften a little. “There’s what one feels - and then there is what is decided one should feel. And one has to find somewhere between all that to be yourself.” Francis was given a long look, raising his eyebrows when James shook his head minutely and let his arms hang at his sides. “All this is far more easy for you than I ever expected. Easier than it ever was for me! I assumed, when we first embarked on... you would treat me a certain way, based on the behaviour of others, that I now know do you no credit. That you would make efforts to hide me away and… and certainly think differently of me when you were faced with me in ridiculous dresses and the like.”

“It is not ridiculous.”

James tossed his hair back off his face and gave Francis a wry smile. “See, far easier a thing for you than it was for me. You are defiantly yourself and I… would never have been able to. Will you forgive me, and let me give you the reaction that your request deserved?”

“Of course,” Francis nodded, still feeling a little bruised as he watch James cross the room to perch on the arm of his chair. 

“If you wish me to have you,” Jame held his graphite stained hand out to Francis. “Then we shall both have a damned good time of it.”

“Thank you, that was more what I was looking for,” Francis said as he took James’ hand. “And thank you for not saying ‘you would be honoured’ or anything like that.”

“Perish the thought, good lord no,” James responded, laying their hands on his thigh. “It might be prudent, to - at first… uh… I can only think of ice breaking metaphors that involve ships bows that are too, too appalling. It might be an idea to test… seaworthiness?”

“Jesus Christ, James!”

“Let me be horribly forward then. Might I advise the use of - “ he held up his free hand and wiggled his long fingers in a way that, given the context, was rather filthy, “ - first, for your comfort and that of my own concerns.”

Francis closed his eyes a moment, wondering if this was a good idea at all, then tipped his head against the back of the chair. “Are you being tender with me James?”

James shrugged, curling over to kiss Francis, thumb trailing over the line of his jaw when he pulled away to whisper. “What if I am?”

  
* ***** *

  
  


The first attempt had not been unsuccessful. It had not gone badly, not at all, it simply became all a little too much. The sensations of fingers inside of Francis were too odd for him to name or decide if they were pleasurable or not; and the physical vulnerability of laying with a pillow under his lower back, legs spread for James to kneel between, was too strong to be softened by James' warm, safe presence over him, or the kisses he had landed on Francis’ face and neck. He had not been scared, there was no threat in James' strength or the power he had over him, but Francis gathered that he had been tense enough for James to ask if he had wished to stop. 

(He had been saved from shame and embarrassment by James' gentle words when he had moved from between Francis’ legs to straddle his hips, taking Francis’ hands from where they had been tangled in the sheets to kiss his palms before putting them to use where James wanted them.)

The second time, a week later, Francis was prepared for how peculiar it all was. They had been kissing slowly, James’ touch moving from stroking Francis’ cheeks down his neck to lay a hand on his chest, fingertips fiddling with the buttons of Francis’ nightshirt in a question that Francis answered by not moving his hand away. 

James followed each undone button with a press of his lips’ to Francis’ chest, a syrupy sort of warmth spreading through Francis in their wake, and he shifted his hips so his prick pressed against James’ hip, a movement that him smiling against Francis’ skin. 

James turned the wicked little quirk of his mouth on Francis, eyes catching autumnal gold in the light from the candle as he trailed his hands down over Francis’ knees only to smooth back up his thighs, pushing his nightshirt up to his waist. Lazy kisses were dropped over Francis’ thighs and hips then, trailing closer and then further away from his prick, an excruciating tease, and just as Francis was about to tell him to get on with it James murmured against his hip. 

“Would you care for my fingers while I suck you?”

Which was an offer Francis agreed to without thought, so easy and in need of touch did he feel.

It was a singular feeling to have James' hot, wet mouth working over him while long fingers pressed him open, the way eased by some oil or other, the touch so achingly gentle that Francis almost blushed.

He was conscious of the pressure of course, and the almost counterpoint between the drag of James' lips on his prick and his fingers moving inside him, but Francis found that he was more aware, and startlingly so, of the soft brush of James’ hair over his stomach and the heat of his mouth, of the way his shoulders pressed against the insides of Francis thighs when he settled in close. The warmth of James’ body only heightened how cool the air was against Francis’ bare legs and flushed face, his pants and the rustles of linen joined by the faint slick noise of what James was doing to him loud enough that it made Francis squirm. He threw an arm over his face rather than look up at the distant moulded ceiling, making an effort to breathe steadily so he would not be so damned melodramatic this time.

A curl of James’ fingers that was too precise to be anything but purposeful sent an rushing swell of pleasure into his gut, and he gasped in surprise. “Oh fuck,” Francis grabbed at James’s shoulder, desperate to not become unmoored by all this. It was not all new and strange, he had a point of reference for the twist of James’ calloused fingers inside him now, and was more than familiar with his mouth, but it all combined to a feeling that had Francis wanting James close. Or closer than he was at any rate - good _christ_ he had his fingers up Francis’ arse, he was bloody close as it was! 

“ _James_ ,” he panted, almost choking on his breath when James pressed his fingers against whatever it was that sent such a sensation through his nerves that it almost hurt. He pulled at James’ nightshirt, not knowing whether to be relieved or complain when James let his prick slip from his mouth to flop wetly against his stomach as he eased his fingers from Francis with great care. 

“Are you all right?” James asked, voice thick from swallowing Francis’ prick down. He brought his wonderful warmth with him as he moved over Francis, holding the hand that was slick with oil carefully out of the way. “Was it too much? I was trying not to…” he fell silent when Francis placed his hand on his chest, concerned gaze flickering over Francis’ face that he he was flushed an unattractive shade of red.

Francis slid his hand up inside of James’ nightshirt, feeling the smoothness of his skin as he skimmed up over his shoulder and to curl over the back of his neck. James did not need more encouragement to kiss him, nipping at his lips before moving to kiss over his neck, pushing Francis’ shirt open to lay directionless attention over his shoulders.

It always got Francis’ blood moving, always made him want to grasp and _have_ when he was being treated so attentively. He would not have tolerated such a thing before James (not that he had much opportunity to not tolerate it) and it was comforting now in its own way. Francis might even say balancing, might ponder the grounding qualities of being so adored by one you love, but James was about to wipe his hand clean on the sheets so Francis reached out to stop him.

James looked up, mouth red and wet, his hair in perfect disarray, a delicate flush spreading from his cheekbones all the way down his long neck, and Francis felt the desire to _have_ be met in equal measure by a want _for_ him. 

“James.”

“Yes?”

“Will you do it now?”

James gave him a dumb look which almost made Francis laugh. When James finally caught his meaning he took a deep breath, lashes fluttering prettily against his cheeks. “Of course,” he said with a smart nod, Francis not missing how he reached between them to squeeze at his prick that was not very well hidden by the pooling of his nightshirt. “A moment.”

Francis was glad there was no enquiries as to whether he was sure, or reassurances of gentleness, just James reaching for the unlabelled bottle on the bedside table and almost upending it. “Got me as clumsy as a colt,” James threw back at Francis with a glint in his eyes that made Francis roll his. 

“At least you are not spitting the cork across the room,” he muttered with a smile, pulling a pillow under his hips and settling so it would not strain his back. 

“You like it when I am rake,” James declared, tossing his hair out of his eyes as if to make a point as he rubbed the slick over his prick. “Right then,” James said to himself as he settled back between Francis’ legs, running both wet and dry hands up the outside of Francis’ thighs on the way to wrap around his calves. 

James brushed his fingers lightly over the backs of Francis’ knees, a thing that always made him squirm and laugh but had no effect on Francis. He made a show of huffing in disappointment, the lightness of his demeanour making Francis smile even as he bit down a strangled sound when James kissed a patch of freckles above his knee. He sucked gentle kisses down the inside of Francis’ thigh, hiking his leg gently higher as his other hand brushed through pubic hair and over Francis’ balls to press in just behind them. 

Francis jerked, that fierce sensation flooding his nerves again, and he threw his arm back over his face. He was determined not to feel exposed and vulnerable again; he was not some blushing bride on his wedding night, he was a sailor, and so should be able to take it arseways without all this self consciousness. 

“You are a wonderful sight you know,” James spoke clearly as he hooked Francis’ knee over his arm and moved closer, gaze intent on him when Francis peeked over the top of his arm. “Everything about you that make me want you to take me to bed, are the same things that make me want you now.”

Francis swallowed heavily and took the arm from his face, almost not regretting it when James smiled.

“There you are,” James pressed a kiss to his knee as he took himself in hand and let the wet head of his cock press up against him. “Now, let’s have at it shall we?”

James was not always careful with himself when Francis fucked him, but nor was he achingly slow now. The blunt pressure of his prick pushing steadily into Francis made him feel as if his very breath was being forced out of him. James took in a purposeful deep breath and Francis copied him, continuing to let it out slowly even when James ceased his movements.

Well, he had done it. After thirty-nine years in the Navy he finally had a cock in his backside alley. This though, laying on fine linen sheets with James, being shown affection and consideration, was more than he would have got in the dark, stinking hold of a ship, and the thought had him reaching for James, pressing one hand to his side while the other grasped at his bicep. 

“Steady now,” James muttered under his breath, maybe to himself or maybe to the both of them, his throat bobbing when he swallowed as if he had to get himself in order. “It has been a while, you understand.”

“Might be an even longer while before you get going,” Francis teased gently, gasping loudly when James rocked his hips into him in retaliation. 

“Now you may need to forgive any...” James started, fumbling to brace his arms next to Francis’ head as he moved inside of him. “ _Oh_ … forgive any…”

“Coltish clumsiness?”

James smiled, removing a hand from beside Francis’ head to tuck his hair securely behind his ears. “You are being rather cheeky, sir. It seems I am not applying myself as I should.”

Any hint of James being overwhelmed (by Francis of all people) disappeared as he got a firm, measured rhythm going, each roll of his hips out and then pressure of his cock sliding back home forcing a grunt from Francis. It was still strange to be so full, to feel a stretch and a pressure in places he had never been aware of until James’ prick slid against them. 

Rolling heat was building slowly in his pelvis, the feeling familiar but more intense, more liquid smooth, and he found himself grasping at the headboard, at the pillow beneath his head, at James, trying to find an anchorage lest he lose himself totally. He could not find it in himself to care that James was watching him with over-bright eyes, arm curled around Francis’ head while the other seemed to be tracing every part of Francis he could reach. James felt out the shape of his shoulder, the breadth of his chest, his stomach and hips, his hand ending up between them to squeeze and fondle Francis’ cock that did not seem to be sure whether to flag or be achingly hard. 

“ _Fr - good Christ_ ,” James all but purred against Francis’ cheek, who fancied he could feel the resonance of his deep voice rumbling through him from where their chests brushed together. He gasped and tried to move, shifting the leg James was not holding to press his knee into his side, and they both let out quite loud exclamations as his prick slid deeper. 

“Fuck,” Francis panted loudly enough to cover the filthy wet sound their joining made when James momentarily lost his rhythm. 

“Sorry.”

“ _How can you say sorry. Fuck. God!”_ Francis said in one long groan, pressing his face into James’ neck as it all became too much. James was doing his damnedest in this moment to make it good for Francis, as he had always known he would, and Francis felt coiled tight beneath him, the pleasure of the hand on his cock spreading hot through his body that felt as pulled tight as a rope, as tight a mainsail backstay about to snap in a screaming gale. The feeling of James working him, fucking him, which was too bright and unfamiliar for Francis to name, finally settled enough, and for long enough, for Francis to reach his peak with a sound that he would not to admit to later but in the moment did not care about one bit.

He was vaguely aware of the pained noise James let out when his body clenched then relaxed beneath him, could hear him panting curses and half-formed filthy things into his hair as his hips stuttered and his cock started to press into him in short sharp movements. Francis would have borne the stinging in his nerves and in his arse to let him find completion like James often allowed him to do, face still hidden in James’ shoulder so he would not have to confront it. 

Francis was still dazed when James pulled away with a grunt, the emptiness so unexpected and unpleasant in made him wince. His mind was slow and heavy, mulling over how he had expected to feel more… heavy and _wet_ with another man's spending inside him, and it took him a moment to realise that James was working a fist over his hard prick. 

James still had a hand braced on the bed to hold himself over Francis, sweaty curls slipping around his face that was concentrated in pleasure, uneven front teeth pressing into his pink bottom lip. He looked lovely, and Francis let his eyes fall lazily down the pale column of his throat and the lithe power across his chest as he fumbled to press a hand to James' heaving ribs.

He was going to say something probably a little clumsy, definitely crude, but before his fucked out brain could connect to his mouth James came upon his release, ducking his head to groan into Francis’ mouth as he spilled over the mess that was already smeared all across Francis’ stomach. 

James sagged when he was finally spent, just catching himself as he slumped to press his cheek into the pillow. It was only for a moment, but Francis held it dear, letting his stiff legs sprawl flat on the bed and curling his arm over James’ shoulders as he blinked up at the shadowed ceiling. 

“Well,” he finally huffed, running his hand down the curve of James’ back when he picked up his head to look down at Francis. 

“Was that all right?”

“You need to ask?”

“I would know you were well,” James said, sweeping fingers along Francis’ brow and down his nose.

“I am well. Stiff and will no doubt be sore in a while, but I feel very content.”

“Good.”

“I - I see the appeal now,” Francis murmured, embarrassed even though he was loose lipped from their love making. “You _had at me_ rather well.”

James snorted inelegantly. “My next question was in fact going to be if you felt I had given you a fine sodding.”

Francis gave him a shove that had James rearing back just far enough to grasp his face in his hands, pressing down hard against Francis as he kissed him soundly, moaning in the back of his throat when Francis pushing his fingers into his hair as he slipped his tongue into his mouth. 

  
  


The sweat sticking Francis’ nightshirt to his back, and the sticky, greasy mess between them prevented a great deal of lazing about in bed, not that Francis had ever been much good at that anyway.

He had not felt all that different in himself after he had fucked his first doxies, nor after engaging with his first man, so did not expect to feel much different now. The aches were in different places, and the sense of sated contentment he felt was not the same. He had not been satisfying an itch, nor working to give another body pleasure, he had done nothing but lay there and be given it, his old body treated as if it were not that tool of purpose that it had been his whole life. Francis was not entirely sure exactly how that felt, but he knew it was good. 

The nightshirt had to go, of course, and Francis did not feel a need to pull another on quite so quickly, taking a moment to wipe himself down properly while James saw to his bed. Francis avoided the mirror on the dressing table all the same, there was no point in ruining this carefree mood he was in, but he could not help noticing the books James had left piled up there. 

“Why on earth do you have Drake piled on top of an essay on... John Locke?”

“Hmm?” James turned to look at him, hand on the place where his neat waist moved out into his hip, unbothered by his nakedness. “Oh,” he breathed, looking faintly surprised to find Francis standing there unclothed. His gaze skittered away before coming back to him, James hesitating a moment before crossing to him in two long strides, looking so uncertain as to if he should leer at Francis or not, that he was too amused to mind how awfully on display he was. “I am pressing some of those flowers you gave me, so I might be horribly sentimental and keep them for as long as I might.”

“Oh,” Francis breathed, feeling rather touched as James looped his arm around his waist. 

“I hold you dear in all ways, you see,” James murmured as he kissed Francis’ hair. “And I - that is, I did not suggest trying things this way around because of that you see, because my tastes are certainly not the rule, and I would not expect them of others.”

“I understand. I would not have had this another way.”

“Really?” James breathed, sounding surprised for no reason Francis could possibly gather.

“Of course not,” he smiled up at James, wrapping his arm around him in turn, relishing the warmth of him and the deceptive strength that had been put to good use buggering him not ten minutes past. “You were considerate and attentive. As I knew you would be.”

“You bring it out in me I’m afraid.”

Francis kissed the corner of his mouth. “Alas.”

“Truely,” James breathed, tilting his head to kiss Francis properly. “Come lay down with me?”

Francis was not as clean as he might be, he could feel the slick still inside him and smeared over his thighs, not to mention that he was still far more naked than was his wont. But James had a tendency to get his way, and Francis was not inclined to deny him when he could still feel the faint sensation of his cock deep inside him.

They curled together easily beneath the the fresh sheets, James hooking his long leg over Francis as he wormed his way under his arm to lay his head on Francis' shoulder like he always did, this time letting his fingers slide idly through the hair on Francis’ chest while he dropped a kiss to a pale freckle here or there.

"Were you - that is to say, did you enjoy it also?" Francis found himself asking, his fingers tracing patterns around the old bullet wound on James’ arm.

"What a question."

"I did not do a great deal."

"I am glad you did not. My word, I was… to tell you the truth I was having to think of all sorts of unpleasant things so I did not go off far too soon, like cleaning out the bilges and such."

“If that was an innuendo that was disgusting.”

“It was not in that particular case,” James laughed. “But I can see your point. It was in fact a compliment, if you can take it as such.”

“I suppose I can,” Francis muttered, not sure that he should have indulged his vanity in asking if James was satisfied. He had never had any man but James, in any fashion, but he supposed one arse was much like another. 

“You should, my darling,” James said archly as he pushed himself up onto his elbow so he give Francis a kiss. “You are always enough, and always a delight.” James slanted him a look that spoke of trouble as he declared archly. “Besides, I’d not have bothered for George Barrow.”

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> At one point in the second section Crozier remembers in not great detail the marks they left when he dad would beat him. It is not graphic, but if that is something you do not want to read it is the sentence after "This body of his was not his own".
> 
> Just want to say - There is no evidence I'm aware of that the real George Crozier was either an alcoholic as he is implied as being in the show, or abusive. Or that the real George Barrow was especially gross, nor do we know for sure what happened in Singapore. 
> 
> On a lighter note - GET IT FRANKYYYYY.


End file.
